


You're all Ribbons and Curls

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Age Play, Alien Mythology/Religion, Black Romance, Caste issues, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Height Differences, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Loss of Virginity, Non-ironic Mention of Rumble Spheres, Recreational Drug Use, Religion Kink, Roleplay, Trollstuck, Xeno, pailing without a bucket oooh kinky kinky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1882083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mirthful shrine maiden Rrhoze Lalond can't seem to do anything to discourage the advances of a dashing and utterly loathsome seadweller slave merchant.</p><p>Will she be able to resist punching an upper-caste douchefin in the groin? Will she learn how to properly role play? Will she be tripping balls for most of it? Will she give in and bang this wily Dualscar fellow? Will she manage to clean the jizz off the shrine before the high priestess returns from her smoke break? Gosh, better read to find out!</p><p>  <i>Written for Drone Season 2014.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	You're all Ribbons and Curls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saffronHeliotrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saffronHeliotrope/gifts).



> _ooh, what a girl,_   
>  _Eyes that sparkle and shine._   
>  _You're sixteen, you're beautiful and you're mine._
> 
> _You're my baby, you're my pet,_  
>  _We fell in love on the night we met._  
>  _You touched my hand, my heart went pop,_  
>  _Ooh, when we kissed, I could not stop._  
> 
> \--Troll Ringo Starr  
>    
> (I think I may have strayed a little too far from the request with this one. Technically, the OP didn't say NOT to do black romance or NOT to make Rose a troll. Also, there is no dance scene. I'm not sure if the dancing had to be literal or figurative, but I steered closer to figurative because I know nothing about literal dancing. I think I managed to capture the basic vibe the OP was looking for [Rose having her way with an older man]. If I missed the mark, I apologize. Allow me instead to direct you to the other request I completed in which the human boys gangbang Karkat and call him pretty. Hard to go wrong with a prompt like that.)
> 
>  

The arches captured the moons in their curves. Raspberry pink and sour apple green candy light gleamed on the black marble, where beneath the vaulted ceiling, a circus tent sat alone. The parted curtains revealed the silver offering plateau, the strings of glinting lights, and Saint Nepenthe Farsight’s icon within.

Rrhoze kneeled before the altar with a rag in hand and a dish of water at her side. She rubbed clean the floor every night before the sun rose. Hours of foot traffic left the shrine a shambles of dirt, grime, and tacky residue from faygo-related accidents. Rrhoze worked methodically. In her bare feet, with her bloomer's legs tugged up above her knees, she began at one wall of the sanctum and inched her way to the other side, nudging her dish of water along as she progressed. The altar, confined within the canopy of bright fabrics, was the final task. Her knees ached. The drifts of thick cushions that usually lined the floor lay slumped in a pile behind the altar.

Rrhoze let her mind expand out of her body. Like a slime mold engulfing a rotten log from the inside out, her soul spread throughout the shrine, down the winding temple halls, out into the courtyard where her tendrils of voodoo tickled at passersby. Rrhoze refrained from prodding too hard. She found several spots of life outside the walls, shimmering like soap bubbles. A gang of cheesecritters in the gutter. A heavy-hoofed transport beast and two troll passengers, a pair of lovers, bathed in pale light. A rustblood stopped to peer into the courtyard, emitting the click and buzz of curiosity and the heavy weight of apprehension. After he scurried off the night fell flat again. She hummed to herself as she whittled away at her list of chores.

When a burst of energy, violent and violet, shot through the evening's peace, Rrhoze flinched. It pulsed and drew near. She honed in on the bundle of life and feeling. Wrapped up within she found waves swallowing ships, necks broken against wet stone, and an insatiable maw, always open, always unsatisfied, always hungry for something.

Footsteps echoed off the marble. Rrhoze tossed her rag aside and threw open the technicolor tent flap.

Into the sanctum a seadweller sauntered. Two thick bands of scar tissue ran parallel across his face, trisecting his features diagonally, but no amount of mutilation could conceal his sharp jaw and high, arrogant cheekbones. Fate had beaten the man senseless with the handsome stick.

He towered more than a foot over her and seemed to lean casually with his shoulder against an invisible wall no matter where he placed his feet, as though he intimidated the thin air into tangibility. A sleeveless tunic and a pair of saran-wrap-tight pants displayed his assets. Here was an individual that swam every night of his life.

“Evening, sugarplum,” he said with a voice as smooth as raw squid flesh.

Rrhoze straightened her shawl. “Welcome to the Messiahs’ Temple of Lethe Province and the Shrine of Saint Nepenthe Farsight,” she recited. “May I help you?”

“I doubt it, darling. Unless this is one of those hedonist clown temples where its all the purple nook I can get my tongue in, but I hear those are only in the south.”

The seadweller ambled past her, disrespect in his every step, leaving his heathen footprints on the glossy black marble Rrhoze spent an hour cleaning. Her jaw clenched.

“Unfortunately,” she said, “this is no such temple. If that’s all then allow me to escort you out.”

He smiled down at her, eyebrow cocked, as though she were a waddling seabird that just took a dump on his worst enemy’s shoe. “Take it easy, sugarplum. Save that feistiness for a time when it’s just you and I. Right now I’m here for an audience with the Grand Highblood.”

Rrhoze tasted oil in his words. She shuddered and scrubbed her tongue over the top of her mouth. “He is currently giving a sermon.”

He scoffed. “When will he be done?”

“Sermons last anywhere from three minutes to five hours, depending on who is preaching and how hung over they are,” she snipped. “Business you have with him or any other member of the clergy can go through me while they are indisposed.”

His fins flared. “I’ve got no business with a little faygo-sticky chit,” he said.

“On the contrary,” Rrhoze replied, “once you passed through those doors you became my business.”

His scar tissue crinkled, pushed up by the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I take it you’re the shrine maiden of this altar.”

“I am.”

“What may I call you, little miss shrine maiden?”

Rrhoze’s paint did nothing to veil the scowl weighing on her brows. “You may call me shrine maiden, without the ‘little miss’, if you please.”

He chuckled. “Shrine Maiden, eh? That’s your wiggler name?”

Rrhoze’s mouth flat-lined. If there were ever a troll with a more anemic sense of humor, she’d never met them.

“Unless I can interest you in one of my services, then I must demand that you leave,” she said.

“Demand,” he repeated, his smile frozen in a caricature of amusement. “Looks like little miss shrine maiden’s tiny shame globes are made of solid brass. You’ve got a lot of nerve making demands of me, sugarplum. How old are you? Eight? Nine? You’ve got some flecks of grape soda in your eyes, but not enough to pass for full-grown. You think that just because some coked up priestess lets you wipe up spilled faygo and play witchdoctor with whatever brain-dead, starry-eyed sucker that comes in here, that you can throw your weight around? Let me tell you something, darling: you can paint your face with that cute little skull, and wear that sex shop corset and circus tent pants, and wave your sticky paws over your discount crystal ball until the sea swallows the land, but at the end of the night, you’re still just a pipsqueak drowner.”

The breeze trembled through the wind chimes hanging in the courtyard. He loomed over her. Rrhoze’s needles were strapped to her calf, ready to gauge an eye out if need be. She took a step forward. “My age is not your concern. Nor is my status within my _own_ caste a _seadweller_ ’s business. Let me remind you, you’re in the hallowed halls of the Mirthful Messiahs. By law of Her Imperious Condescension, the Eternal Empress, She Who is Infinitely Wise, this land belongs to the Grand Highblood. Every square centimeter. So allow me to exercise my right to defend my Empress-given territory by politely asking that you either show some respect or graciously remove your brine-soaked girth from my shrine.”

They exchanged glares until delight broke through the seadweller’s scowl. “Not brass balls I see, but steel. I like that in a girl." He shook his head and heaved a sigh. "Now if only you were taller than a lowblood and had proper rumble spheres, then you might turn my head.”

“I say a thousand prayers of thanks to the messiahs, saints, and all the spirits that I don’t. If you’re lonely—and you strike me as the lonely type—I recommend to you the demented vagabond woman who squats in the alley between the karaoke bar and the blacksmith two blocks from here. Now leave.”

“I’ll leave after I’ve spoken with the Grand Highblood.”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll be waiting quite awhile. I’ve never known him to say something in five words that can be said in fifty.”

The seadweller shrugged. “I’ve got plenty of time.”

Rrhoze sniffed. “I won’t be able to entertain you. I’ve got chores to do.”

“I’ll behave myself.” He winked. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

Rrhoze pulled the tent flaps aside so that she could keep an eye on him. Her guest settled on a bench adjacent a tapestry depicting Saint Farsight delving into the fate of a long-past empress. With her vision omnifold, she sifted through the pink seadweller's future and tracked a thread down to a potential assassination attempt. The late empress ordered the perpetrator to be executed more than a dozen sweeps before he could commit the crime.

The seadweller rolled his eyes at the saint’s noble deed. Rrhoze put her back to him. She attacked the floor with both hands, honing in on a few footprints. Grey water ran down her arms. Out of the corner of her eye, she observed him observing her.

Rrhoze wove together a web of fear pulling from the terror of a storm on the ocean’s horizon, self-hatred, and assured failure, and stitched in a subtle embroidery of the sense of dread that lingers with you after you wake up from a nightmare. She cast her voodoo net over her guest. The seadweller yawned. Rrhoze prodded him. No response in his subconscious. Not even a ripple. Rrhoze investigated him out of the corner of her eye. He winked at her. He crossed his long legs and leaned back, flexing his taut chest.

She stifled a snarl. “Why do you need to speak with the Grand Highblood yourself,” she asked. “Don’t you have servants to do that for you?”

He cracked his neck. “Sure, I got men on my payroll, but I’m a merchant with goods to sell and I like to look my buyers in the eye before we do business. Word says that the GH is a buyer.”

“What, may I ask, sort of wares do you peddle?”

“I’m a middle man between industrious folks looking to permanently employ dedicated laborers and able-bodied workers in need of occupation.”

“What a clever way to say slaves,” Rrhoze deadpanned.

Perhaps it was punishment for forgetting to pay her proper dues to the shrine, or maybe a nasty spirit was having a go at her; whatever the cause, a dark purple odor swelled under her nose. Rrhoze's cheeks darkened beneath her paint. Between her legs, a damp patch bloomed. As the seadweller shifted on the bench, the gold teardrops dangling from his fins clinked. Rrhoze cringed. As inconspicuously as a girl popping an inconvenient boner can manage, she crawled out of his line of sight.

She concealed her scent under the haze lavender incense. Pale threads of smoke swirled through the tent.

The seadweller chuckled. "Something smells good."

Rrhoze scrubbed the floor as though it were a personal offense to her. Eventually he gave in. Before the first fingers of light stretched through the windows, she heard a sigh and the tap of footsteps retreating. The slamming door boomed through the sanctum. Rrhoze peeked out of the tent. Nothing remained of her guest but the stubs of a few cigarettes littering the floor. Before the high priestess released her for the night, Rrhoze burned roughly a small gumtree grove’s worth of incense to overpower the stink of tobacco and cleaning products (and what lingered of her own pheromones).

A streak of pale teal peeked over the horizon as she arrived home.

“Jaspers,” she yawned, unknotting her shawl and shrugging it from her shoulders. “I’m back.” Her shoes she abandoned in the entry hall.

“Jaspers,” she called again. Her fingers fumbled over her bodice. “I hope that you went hunting today because once I lie down I won’t be getting up again.”

Sweat and ammonia soaked her clothes. Sex shop corset, Dualscar sneered. Rrhoze paused. Before diving headfirst into the slime, she folded the bloomers and laid them on her nightstand, as though preparing an altar for a ritual. The bodice she arranged on top of them. She plucked the flattened sleeves into their proper black creampuff shape. Sex shop corset. She snorted. Her shawl she draped artfully over her armchair, along with her head scarf, like two lilac ghosts languishing in the thin streams of light creeping in through the blinds. Wearing nothing but her underwear, she collapsed into her recuperacoon. A bottle of soporwine sat on the 'coonside table. More than half remained. Rrhoze swigged the room temperature brew; she gagged on the film of slime that had congealed on the surface.

Jaspers prowled into the her room from wherever it was he slinked off to during the night and presented her with the mangled remains of a quackbeast. His saber teeth speared the creature through its back.

“I don’t want leftovers, but thank you anyway.”

He settled down on the floor beside her, his hulking shoulders shoving the 'coonside table half a foot in the process. Quackbeast bones snapped like glass martini stirrers in his jaws. Rrhoze scratched behind his ear. She swallowed another mouthful of soporwine. By her third drink, her body was lighter and her head was heavier.

Rrhoze tipped backwards into a dream where an ocean of glass shards surged around her boat. The sea spray smelled of bitter-sour sopor. A storm swirled overhead. Crests jostled her, broke against her, and the glittering, tinkling, glass sea flung her into the waves.

The edges sliced into her skin, leaving deep cuts on her cheeks and chest and between her thighs. It was painless though she could see the raw purple-black muscle within. She screamed and thrashed because logically it seemed like the thing to do, and because the fear of the webbed hands caressing her ankles drove every other thought away.

She raked through (bottles) the churning glass (all empty, shattered bottles—broken necks, cool lips, dead soldiers). The hands released her. Rrhoze thrust out with her chucklevoodoo, sweeping through the cold depths, searching him out.

Thick muscled arms wrapped around her, holding her tight against his body. She roared and thrashed. A welterweight taking on the heavyweight champion. A leg rubbed between her thighs. Hissing, Rrhoze freed her arm from his grip. She reached behind her, fingers groping along his throat until they found moist slits right at the junction where his shoulder met his neck. Before he could drop her, she dug her nails into his gills.

He yelped. Rrhoze slipped from his embrace. The swell pulled her beneath the surface. She inhaled microscopic chips of green glass, tasting dried sopor and her own lipstick smudges in every breath. He dragged her above the waves. A cold pair of hands snuck around from behind, cupping her rumble spheres. Rrhoze gasped.

"Don’t pretend you aren't having fun, sugarplum.”

His voice was as deep as sixty thousand leagues of water bearing down on a diver trapped on the ocean floor. It vibrated inside her and found a cozy burrow behind her pelvis. Her cheeks flushed. He tugged her backwards until his bulge nudged her lower back. Glass crumbled like sugar cubes between their bodies.

Rrhoze hissed at every caress. Her groin grew warm.

“Call me sugarplum one more time,” she warned.

His fingers found her nook. Rrhoze mewled.

“Have you ever done this before?” The question came from all around; it was in her head, it was in the sea, it was in his mouth…

Rrhoze emerged from the dream flushed and baring her teeth. A hopbeast beat its hind legs against the inside of her skull, and not content to just kick her, it sank its finger-sized teeth into her grey matter as well. After popping two painkillers, she rolled out of her sopor and stumbled toward the shower.

She staggered into the temple twenty minutes late. Nepenthe Farsight does not like to be kept waiting. Rrhoze slipped into the tent. Farsight’s icon leered at her while she rushed to get ready. She wrapped her head in purple and threw her veil over her shoulder and tied it at her waist.

She tugged a few cushions out from under the pile in the corner and constructed a nest of acid green pillows to kneel upon while she prayed. With a sigh, she cast her eyes down under the icon’s gaze.

“Hey there, sugarplum.”

Rrhoze’s head jerked up. She twisted her body around to get a look at the sleeveless seadweller peering into the tent, chewing a cigar.

“Am I interrupting something,” he asked, inviting himself in.

“Yes, you are,” Rrhoze snapped.

The seadweller flopped over onto one of the cushions. He stretched out, his long, strong legs almost brushing the tent wall.

“What the hell do you want,” Rrhoze asked.

“I’m here for your voodoo soul magic.”

“Excuse me?”

“Whatever you want to call it. I want a palm reading and I want you to tell me my future and maybe throw in a spell or two. The works.”

Rrhoze lowered her horns to him. “So that you may ridicule my profession and harass me to your satisfaction? Oh, I’d just love too. Let’s start now. I see in your future you contracting a fatal strain of nookrot, which you spread throughout the empire, wiping out our species. You go down in intergalactic history as the man who destroyed the Alternian Empire. Your effigy is burned at festivals from Vogon to Coruscant as the hero whose twat liberated dozens of barbarian civilizations from Her Imperious Condescension’s control.”

He propped his head up in the palm of his hand and puffed a smoke ring into the air. It hovered over him like a halo. “Don’t be fucking rude,” he said. “You talk that way to all your patrons?”

“Never, but you are not a patron and therefore exempt from all courtesy. Jackass.”

A purr boiled in his chest. Rrhoze shuddered. “I’m not hitting on you, you delusional narcissist. This is purely platonic contempt."

"I think we got off on the wrong foot," he said, extending his hand to her. "The name's Dualscar."

"I couldn't care less what your name is. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get started on my chores.”

Dualscar sucked a drag from his cigar. “What,” he chuckled. “You the hivekeeper too, little girl? Is that in the shrine maiden job description? I figure you’ve got more important things to do, like chatting with messiahs and flying into divine ecstasies.”

“I do whatever this shrine needs of me. Mainly, I clean it.”

She stared him down. Dualscar flicked his cigar, sprinkling a puff of ash into the air. The flecks came to rest on the floor.

“Sounds like a laugh a minute. I don’t know if I’d be able to handle that much excitement. Cast any spells to make it magically spotless?”

“I do not know of such a spell,” Rrhoze replied, “but I do know a few for other purposes. Spells for revenge. Spells for murder. Hexes. Jinxes. I have a spell that makes your enemy feel like someone shoved chili flakes into their seedflap.”

“Oh really,” he asked, huffing another lungful of smoke in her direction. “How much does one of those spells cost?”

“You can’t afford it.”

He smirked. “They must be pretty potent if you charge that much.”

“I actually only charge a few caegars. What I mean is that _you_ can’t afford it.”

“Oh my,” he gasped, clutching at his chest where his heart would be if he hadn’t sold it to too make room for a deeper nook. “Darling, careful now. You’ll hurt a guy’s feelings.”

Dualscar laughed. The two namesakes carved into his flesh stretched and wrinkled to accommodate his grin. He held up his cigar. “Ever had one of these? Imported from one of the colonies. The locals grow berries that are like sopor, dry them, crush them, and mix it them in with a few other ingredients. Gives you a hell of a fine feeling. Want a taste?”

Rrhoze gave him a sideways glance. “Sounds like a pricy luxury. Why waste it on a faygo-sticky chit?”

“I have a confession.”

“Shall I go fetch the priestess for you? I’m not yet ordained to receive secrets.”

“No, little girl,” he said. “My confession is that I lied. I didn’t come here for a reading with the shrine maiden of Saint What’s-Her-Fucks altar. I came to see if the shrine maiden wanted to go for a drink sometime.”

“I suppose I’m meant to feel flattered.”

“You can feel flattered if you want to. You can feel offended.” He lifted his cigar. Where his mouth held it, the paper glistened with spit. “Or you can feel like someone poured the night’s brightest stars into your ear.”

Dualscar sat up on crossed his legs and pat his thigh, his eyebrow arched in a challenging quirk. Without breaking eye contact, Rrhoze settled into his lap.

He brushed the cigar over her painted mouth. “Open up, sugarplum,” he purred.

Rrhoze pursed her lips. His taste lingered on the head. Dualscar drank in the sight, his thin smile growing wide.

“Now suck.”

She was not a stranger to the effects soporwine, but whatever went into the cigar mix, the berries made up the least of the potency. Rose’s eyes watered.

Dualscar chuckled. “The taste is a little sharp. I probably should have warned you.”

Rrhoze hissed through her nose.

“If you need to cough, I promise not to laugh too long.”

She released the smoke and cleared her throat. “I’ve had stronger.” A pale pink haze gathered at the back of her skull, a frilly pillow where her brain could curl up like meowbeast and doze off. “This is certainly the quickest acting, though.”

“See, I bring you nice things.” He stroked his webbed fingers up her side. She shivered. “I touch you nice. I don’t see any reason why we have to dance around each other. You’re feeling it, I’m feeling it. Why won’t you give me a chance, little girl? ”

“Because you’re a lecherous, philandering sea creature.”

Rrhoze took the cigar back into her mouth and inhaled deep of the bubblegum high. He did the same. Her head came to rest on his shoulder. A big hand cupped her rear. Purrs rumbled through her chest, but whether they were hers or transferred to her from him, it didn’t matter. Her mind wandered to her dream. He slipped his fingers up her side, teasing the curve of her chest.

“I’m never going to get a drink with you,” she said. “Not even if the sea swallows the land and you’re my only ticket to survival. I’ll drown first.”

“Oh,” he purred, “I’ll miss you when you’re gone.”

He gave her rumble sphere a squeeze. Rrhoze gazed at the moist slits peeking out from under his collar. She nosed them. Dualscar froze—(in an instant a spike of white sharp fear shot through the excitement and arousal)—but relaxed into the gentle movement of her lips across the thin tissue. His fingers danced over her thigh. Rrhoze inhaled the deep, dark, violet scent under his skin. Musky, adult pheromones filled her head; the musk broadcasted his intentions.

“Maybe we should do this somewhere else,” he murmured. He glanced up at the altar. “Somewhere where the statue of some dead broad isn’t sneering at us.”

Her thoughts swam in warmth and smoke. “But Mr. Dualscar I’m not supposed to go places with strangers,” said Rrhoze, putting on a pout.

“Oh, little darling,” he cooed, taking another drag of his cigar. “I’m not such a bad man.” He grabbed his crotch. “And I promise I have lots of candy for you.”

Rrhoze grimaced as though she caught a whiff of a half-eaten fish rotting in a tide pool. She sucked her teeth. “Okay, pause.” She leaned away from him. “That is the last time you’re allowed to say something like that.”

He huffed. “For a Mirthful shrine maiden, you’re really no fun.”

She dropped a kiss on his upper lip. “If you impress me, you’ll get to see my fun side.”

A grin split his face. One of the ragged strips of scar tissue extending from jaw to brow pulled painfully on his eyelid. He set the cigar in the incense bowl. “I like the way you bargain, little girl. You’d make a half decent corsair. A little experience in pillaging, pilfering, and the art of extortion and you’ll be good to go.”

“Is my lack of experience a weak spot?”

“No, no, darling. Just a little flavor to your character. I like them young,” he confessed without an ounce of shame, giving her ass another squeeze, “and just a little inexperienced.”

“Don’t be uncouth,” said Rrhoze, flicking her tongue along the folds of his gills. “I was referring to piracy.”

“No, you weren’t,” he replied. “Holy women shouldn’t lie, sugarplum. Especially not while sitting in a temple, smoking a joint the size of my bulge, giving a privateer a lapdance. For shame.”

She bit back a smile. “You dirty old man.”

“Hmm,” he agreed. He nuzzled between her rumble spheres, licking kisses up to her sternum. “I do love them when they’re young, though. Young and fresh and wide-eyed.”

He tugged her off his lap and rearranged her, wrapping her legs around his waist. Her hips ground into his. His cool mouth brushed her ear. “And I just get so wet for feisty landdweller girls in shrine maiden uniforms. Tight little bodice pushing their rumble spheres up to their chins. Stupid poofy bloomers clinging to their thighs. Good, faithful girls, who say they’re prayers and leave offerings every night and scrub the floor on their hands and knees with their ripe little asses in the air.”

Rrhoze snarled against his shoulder. “You bastard. I knew you were watching me.”

Dualscar caressed her rear and sighed. “You’re carting a winner around back here, sugarplum. Might take a bite out of it, it’s so juicy. It’s a shame you aren’t endowed in the front as well. That bodice is wasted on you.”

Rrhoze bit his chin. He jerked away. “Perhaps you should reserve your judgments until after you’ve had me. Unless you want me to walk away.”

“That’s the last thing on Alternia that I want.” He shrugged, flashing her that anglerfish grin. He dangled his bait between her eyes. “All I’m saying is, you purple blood girls are usually stacked as high as gold ingots in the Empress’s bank vault. Just an observation.”

Rrhoze ground against his bulge hard enough to force a gasp from his chest. It writhed against her thigh.

“A stereotype, I assure you,” she said, enjoying the way his eyes squeezed shut. “To assume that due to my blood color, my chest should be strapped with two unwieldy flotation devices is casteist, ignorant, and hilarious. It sounds to me like you’ve learned about the world through porn, am I wrong? Lonely fantasies and foolish expectations.”

Eye-to-eye with Rrhoze, his arms snaked around her waist. “Little girl,” he whispered, dragging one of his hands up her back to thumb the soft skin of her neck. He pressed her against the lump quickening at his groin. “You're lucky you're such a tasty little bit, or else I'd strip you naked and lock you in stocks for speaking to me that way."

He unclasped her bodice. She let it slip from her shoulders, as casual as if this were how she spent every Thursday night. But she couldn’t suppress the blush blooming under her paint. When it reached the tips of her ears, Dualscar fondled the cartilage, nibbling his bottom lip. “What have we here?”

Rrhoze frowned.

“Sugarplum,” he whispered, as though they were gossiping schoolwigglers, “are you getting a little excited?”

She didn’t deign to respond. To the soft flesh of her rumble spheres, Dualscar sucked a kiss before sneaking a hand down the front of her underwear and plunging a finger into her nook. Rrhoze yelped. He laughed as she slapped him across the scars.

He tested his stinging cheek, massaging the purpling flesh. “Oh, you’re just making me like you more and more.” He stroked a knuckle along her entrance.

With one hand fisting her hair, he tipped her head back for a kiss. He chewed her lip until the blood prickled beneath her flesh. Rrhoze wriggled in his grasp. The tent rustled with their struggle, the strings of gold lights clacking overhead.

“So eager,” he hummed. “Sugarplum, be honest with me: Have you ever done this before?”

Rrhoze ducked her head. “Don’t insult me.”

“Now, now.” He twirled a lock of her hair between his fingers. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not some virginal ascetic divine,” she snapped. “Sorry to spoil your fantasy.”

“I’m talking about more than some sloppy groping behind the altar when priestess isn’t looking.” He allowed her bulge to unsheathe into his hand. It wove through his fingers.

Rrhoze turned her moan into a hum of innocent confusion. “Why, Mr. Dualscar, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Perhaps a demonstration, then?”

He tossed her back onto the nest of pillows. Rrhoze caught a glimpse of his sylladex ejecting something into his palm before he unwrapped her bulge from his hand and fit a rubber retainer into his mouth. Soft silicon wrapped around his fangs. He winked. Rrhoze exhaled a trembling breath. He yanked her bloomers from her legs. With fingers clutching her hips, bare save for her disheveled underwear, his tongue massaged around the base of her bulge. She gave an undignified squeak. He cocked an eyebrow.

In one smooth bob of his head, the tip of her bulge found the slick wall at the back of his throat. Rrhoze trilled. Her head fell back on the pillow, her neck a vulnerable arch. She laced her fingers in his thick hair, tugging on the waves and thoroughly spoiling his carefully styled coif.

He pulled her from his mouth. “Good,” he asked, muffled a little by the rubber on his teeth.

“Yes.” She swallowed. “It’s good.”

Dualscar’s tongue slid like silk. A chirr stirred in her chest. He smiled around her and the tremors of his laughter rumbled through her nerve endings. Rrhoze clamped her jaw tight to trap a moan. Her bulge rolled over the back of his fangs and tried to twine with his tongue. He sucked her deeper into his throat. Muscles tightened around her.

Her legs spread wider. Now fully unsheathed, her bulge squirmed in the vice of his esophagus. His finger traced over her entrance, delicate with no intrusion. In one long suck, he pulled off her. Her bulge coiled in the air, searching for his mouth, for a nook, for a hand, for anything warm.

Rrhoze hissed and snatched at his horns. Dodging out of her reach, he peeled the retainer from his mouth. “Easy, Sugarplum. We'll get there. We just don’t want it to end so soon, do we?”

Torn between his logic and the thudding ache between her legs, Rrhoze scowled. He crawled up her body, pausing to press a kiss to her belly before he hauled her into the air. She bit back a shriek of surprise.

He pinned her to the altar, his arms looped around her thighs. Rrhoze clung to his neck. She cast a wary eye at the floor. He sucked a kiss from her neck and squeezed her thighs. Connected at their hips, a lump coiled and uncoiled in his trousers, writhing against Rrhoze’s underwear. His voice dropped an octave. “You shouldn’t wander away from your lusus, little one. Whose going to protect you if a grown up finds you?”

Lust surged up her spine. Brain wiped blank, her mouth flapped empty of clever retorts. “I—uh—“

Like a ben-day dot supervillain standing over the hapless heroine, Dualscar rolled into a monologue. “Because you know what big trolls do to the pretty little trolls, don’t you? They eat them. Chop them up and fry them or gobble them up raw. You should be more careful, sugarplum.”

A soft moan, just a touch more than a whisper, fell from her lips as her bulge twisted in on itself, seeking out her own nook for lack of another option.

“Do you like that,” he asked.

She licked her lips. “I may be a little curious to see where you’re going with this,” she confessed.

“Ever roleplay before?”

Rrhoze shook her head. Slick lined her nook, soaking into her underwear; when she moved the wet fabric peeled away from her skin. “How complicated could it be?”

Dualscar grinned. He lapsed back into a moustache-twirling madman, now with twice as much of a repeat-sex-offender vibe. “Little girl,” he growled, deep enough to vibrate in her groin. “A cute thing like you better watch herself. If an adult finds you, they won’t hesitate to snatch you up.”

Cool lips found her chest. Mouthing at the tender flesh, he purred, “Look at you. Barely any rumble spheres, irises almost as bloodless as a new-hatched grub, and skin as pale as twilight. You’re a sprout. Grown ups take one look at you and they know what’s on the menu.”

Rrhoze swallowed and asked (with a voice one note higher than what was natural for her), “I hear that seadwellers are the worst of all. Is that true?”

Dualscar pressed his forehead to hers and winked.

“Yes,” he replied gravely. “They’re the most vicious and wild of all. You see, they don’t want to eat you. Not at first, anyway. They’ll play with you before taking a bite.”

Rrhoze tilted her head in the mockery of a baffled juvenile barkbeast. “Play?”

“Play,” he murmured, low and secretive. He pressed his mouth to her ear. “They take pretty little girls and boys to play with because they’re _lonely_.”

(Rrhoze snorted into his shoulder.)

“And what do they do with the young trolls,” she asked.

“Well, let me see” he whispered. His tongue flicked over the shell of her ear. Rrhoze pressed her face into his neck and mewled against his gills. He hoisted her aloft with one arm while he tugged her bloomers all the way off her thighs with his free hand.

“First they rip their clothes off,” he said.

Her bulge groped against her belly, leaving grape jelly tracks. A purple splotched bloomed in her underwear, the last defense dividing Rrhoze's rear from the cold stone. She shivered. Dualscar supported her with one hand while the other brushed over the damp patch between her legs. With a touch so light, it inspired a whine rather than a moan.

“Then,” he continued, “they hold them tight so they can’t escape.”

He rolled a knuckle over her entrance, back and forth. She fidgeted. “And?” Under his motions, the barest wisps of pleasure floated up Rrhoze’s spine. “May we please move along while I’m still young enough to pass for under aged?”

Dualscar tsked. “First rule of roleplay, sugarplum. Never break character.”

“There is no such rule.”

“It’s absolutely a rule. Who’s the teacher here?”

Rrhoze pulled him close, nose nudging his nose. She pressed her rumble spheres to his chest and pleaded, pouty lipped, “Mr. Dualscar, what do the seadwellers do to young trolls? Please, please tell me.”

Snickering, he pressed a kiss to her bottom lip. “Now you’re getting the hang of it.”

With one hand, he tore open his trousers and nudged his underwear off his hips. Adult musk tickled her nose. His bulge twisted against his abdomen. Rrhoze tensed. Though tapered, his length was proportional to his height, exceeding the distance from her wrist to the tips of her fingers.

Dualscar nuzzled her neck, brushing his lips over the pulse. He whispered, “I’m not going to make you take all of it, you wiggler. I’m not that much of a psychopath. You can unclench.”

Rrhoze nipped his fin. He hissed. “I was only going to remark that I expected more from a seadweller. But since my rumble spheres were underwhelming for you, I suppose its only fair we’re both disappointed by stereotypes.”

He forced her legs wider and rut against her groin where his bulge lapped at the seat of Rrhoze’s underwear, barely brushing the hot flesh beneath the cotton. She choked on a moan.

“Do you still want to know what seadwellers do to little trolls,” he hissed. The tapered tip searched out the elastic hem. It wriggled under the fabric, where it discovered the silky skin around Rrhoze’s nook. Like a single, languid finger it caressed the aching flesh.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Rrhoze answered, thrusting back against him. She laughed as his bulge delved in just enough to kiss her walls. The muscles within tugged him deeper. “I need to know, in case I ever meet one of these reprehensible brutes.”

Dualscar panted in her ear, “They fuck their sweet little nooks. Over and over, because it’s warm and tight and wet and wants to be fucked. And so soft, little sugarplum. Soft as a newly molted wiggler. And let me tell you, there is just no substitute.”

Rrhoze yanked at the hem of her underwear. “What should—what should I do if I meet a seadweller,” she asked, stuttering but committed to her character.

“Be a good girl and pray to your goofy messiahs that it never happens.” He planted a chaste kiss on her brow. “But don’t be frightened, sugarplum. I’ll protect you.”

“Oh Mr. Dualscar,” Rrhoze sighed, back of her hand held against her forehead and neck lolling as if on the verge fainting, “my noble savior.”

He momentarily set her feet on the ground so she could wriggle out of her panties, all the while sucking hickeys on her neck as she slid her underwear from her hips. His lips roamed over the sharp bones in her shoulders.

She threw her legs around his waist. A column of ash crumbled from the end of the incense stick as the altar shook. Dualscar sucked her tongue between his cool lips. His teeth raked her chin. She bit back. A bead of violet swelled at the corner of his mouth. Their hips aligned like the most auspicious stars and with a kiss and a sigh, his bulge squirmed inside her.

One of his hands grasped his length at the base, keeping half at bay while she adjusted to the first breach. She grit her teeth, expecting the burn. It didn’t come. The sleek tip squirmed inside, slick and slow as an oil tanker bleeding out in the middle of the ocean. He gazed down at her, eyes raking over her furrowed brow, her twisted mouth. “No good?”

“No, no, it’s…” It curled up inside her, arching against the sensitive nerves along the rim of her entrance. “It’s excellent,” she sighed.

Within her, it rippled. At a sweet spot just inside her entrance, the muscle coiled thick and hard against the tissue. Rrhoze shivered. Her brow came to rest on his shoulder.

“It’s perfect,” she said, her mind in no state to invent pretty metaphors to describe the cresting and crashing organ as it swelled inside her.

“That’s nice to hear, sugarplum.” That grin. Those cheekbones. So unsurprised by her answer. Rrhoze’s nook clenched around him with the same unforgiving bite of her teeth clamped down on his shoulder.

“Oooh, little girl,” he said through gritted teeth. “Don’t blow your load too soon now.”

“Worry about your self,” she murmured. Her nails skimmed up his back, as though to caress the nape of his neck. As soon as her fingertips found gills, she dug in.

Half a shout, half a moan, he howled. They rolled into one another, crashing in and grabbing with frantic hands. They grappled. The altar shook. The offering plateau rattled against the stone. He unraveled her from the inside out and from her ankles to her horns, Rrhoze’s body sang.

His fingers explored her back, carving into her ribcage, trailing down her spine, squeezing her ass and pulling her closer. “Is it how you like it, sugarplum?”

“Mm,” she replied.

In Rrhoze’s solo explorations, the most delightful location on her body was far at the back of her nook, but Dualscar stayed near her entrance, playing with the bright nerve endings he found there. The pleasure built slowly as Dualscar dragged her higher. He flicked across her interior until her barricades fell and one by one, the moans and whimpers she’d held in her chest rolled off her lips, into his mouth. He devoured them like it was the only food that could satisfy his appetite. She traced the expanse of his broad shoulders, aching with jealousy for his height and his muscles and his nasty smile and his thick bulge and his royal, briny blood. Her walls squeezed around him. He grunted.

“H-h-ah…mm.” Rrhoze took a shaky breath. “I need… Du—“

“Are you close,” he asked.

She bit her tongue. “I’m… approaching the end of my… active participation… in this venture.”

He howled his laughter in her ear. “Give it to me in layman’s terms, sugarplum.”

“I need a... you know,” she hissed. "One of those."

“Hm. I'm not sure I know what you're talking about. Could you be more specific?"

"For fuck's sake." She squeezed her eyes shut. "I... need a pail."

"There you go. See? Aren't you a big girl using your grown up words.” He nuzzled a kiss onto her bare shoulder. “To bad I didn’t bring one.”

Rrhoze’s vision flashed red. The oncoming wave of fury was the final push. Rrhoze’s back arched, she swore, she kicked her legs, she fisted his hair, and she ripped his over-greased strands out by the roots as she squirmed in his grasp. Her orgasm shot up through her body like a geyser. Her wrath was the opening act for his melodramatic peep show. His whole body jerked like a pornstar’s, his biceps flexed, and he moaned like music. Rrhoze could’ve spit in his eye. No one’s o-face should be that handsome.

She shoved him off of her, jumping to her feet with a snarl. The altar was unspeakable.

Their combined purple-violet swirl dripped down the sides. Ooze plip-plopped on the stone floor, like a huckleberry sorbet left out in the dawn light. It flecked the cushions, too. Rrhoze whirled on him just in time to see the tent flap flutter closed. His laugh echoed through the sanctum.

 


End file.
